The Secret Life Of Dolls

In some collector's bedroom sits this pink dollhouse packed in with all her other tchotchkes. After the woman steps out, the two dolls inside—Brittney Kade and Lauren Phillips—suddenly blink awake, whispering like kids who just spotted the cookie jar. Nineteen years they’ve sat on that shelf, never once hearing anything like the racket that just happened. They heard the collector and her girlfriend going at it; groans, skin slapping, the bed creaking like it might break. Neither doll knew moans could get that loud. Brittney tilts her tiny plastic head. "They liked that? Sounded like she was trying to crack her girlfriend in half." Lauren stifles a giggle. "Bet it felt incredible. Did you see the way she grabbed her hips and—" "—pulled her in like she wanted to disappear inside her. Yeah, saw that." Silence for a heartbeat. Then Brittney wiggles closer. "Think we could do it? You, me, the same moves?" Lauren’s painted-on lips curve. "Her stash of silicone toys is right there. Collectors gone for the night. Why not?" They slide off their miniature couch, breathing fast though they don’t need lungs. Fingers brush. Heat sparks. Clothes fall—stiff fabric forgotten on the rug. Lauren climbs Brittney’s lap, tiny bodies grinding in an awkward, needy circle while plastic palms grab whatever they can reach. Soft plastic kisses turn wetter; tongues slide; teeth clink once and they laugh against each other’s mouths. Fingers find tight seams and press, grind, search for the hidden battery ports under their skirts. Pleasure jolts through them like cheap toy lights flickering on. They roll, tug, bite, and scramble for a better angle until they finally jam two brightly colored vibrators between their plastic thighs, switch them on, and hold each other while the buzz rattles their tiny ribs. Sweat? Condensation? Whatever it is beads on brows. Their moans copy the exact pitch the collector made—half giggly, half starved—and the dollhouse walls shake with miniature bliss.